


Il n’y a pas de fumée sans feu (There's No Smoke Without Fire)

by Codydarkstalker



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: F/F, Short One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-18
Updated: 2017-11-18
Packaged: 2019-02-03 20:36:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,245
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12755730
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Codydarkstalker/pseuds/Codydarkstalker
Summary: Tracer is tasked with clearing Widow out her sniper nest. It's too bad the job is never easy.





	Il n’y a pas de fumée sans feu (There's No Smoke Without Fire)

Tracer took quiet, quick, steps up the stairs, balancing on the tips of her toes. Inside the building it was quiet, but outside she could hear the battle going on. It was loud, chaotic, normally that was the environment in which she thrived. But right now she had a job to do. 

She tiptoed up another flight of stairs, thankful that so much of her life revolved around cardio, and listened at the door on the stairwell landing. Silence again. She knew Widow was in the building. The sniper had used her grappling hook and escaped as soon as the battle got close to her, and now she was all dug in, happy in her little nest. Commander Morrison had sent her in to clear Widow out. 

“Be careful kid,” He had warned her, gravelly voice muffled behind his visor. “Widow is a great sniper, but she’s nothing to sneeze at in close range either. Her gun has a rapid fire mode that will be ard for even you to dodge. You should also look out for gas mines in the hallways leading up to where she’s set up. They won’t be enough to kill you, but they hurt, and they’ll give her enough warning so move house. Which means doing the whole thing over again.” He had clapped her on the back, and she had the feeling he was smiling under his mask.

She kept his advice in mind as she crept down the winding halls. The building had been an office before the block was evacuated. Each hall looked much like the one before, only broken up with big rooms full of cubicles. Papers littered the floor, and she had to inch along as she looked for mines.

She nearly jumped through the ceiling when the building shook. Junkrat and his rip tire, it was so loud that plaster dust rained down on everything. She dove under a desk as a few bookshelves began to fall over, dominoing into a dozen file cabinets. When the din finally settled, she stuck her head out and listened. She could hear cursing in the distance. Cursing in French.

“Merde! Damned stupid, Australian idiot. Doesn’t understand anything about subtlety or style.” the voice was angry, and louder than it would have been if Widow had any idea that someone else was in the building.

Tracer edged along a wall and stuck her head around the corner. There was a door open, but she couldn’t see into the room behind. She couldn’t see because of the wall of purple gas blocking her vision. She covered her mouth with a sleeve and crept closer. A chunk of ceiling tile had fallen on Widow’s mine, setting it off and filling the office with smoke. 

As Tracer moved forward the haze began the thin out. She could see beyond the doorway now. Widow had taken over a corner office with a massive wall of windows, and was perched on the desk, gun in hand. She was totally focused on the street in front of her, the long curtain of her hair falling forward she she leaned forward, legs braced on the window will, to take her shot. 

Tracer waited for her finger to squeeze the trigger, and then made her move. She ran forward, keeping low. She pulled her guns, and just before she could fire, the world exploded in a shower of glass and sparks. 

“Fils de pute!” Widow curled in on herself as she rolled back, arms up to protect her face. 

Phara had hit the wall of window with a barrage of rockets. They shattered the glass, and the force of the blast sent both women sprawling back. Tracer yelped as she fell onto the floor, skidding back into the wall. 

Widow rolled off the desk and landed on the floor, facing Tracer. “Well, well, fancy meeting you here cherie.” She turned onto her side and pulled her gun out from under her and used it to leverage herself up off the floor.

“We really have to stop meeting like this,” Tracer coughed out, slapping her recall button. A fraction of a second later she was back in the doorway, minus the cuts and scrapes and dust from the explosion. 

“No, where’s the fun in that?” Widow smirked and pulled her gun up fast, shifting it into automatic fire mode. She peppered the wall behind Tracer with bullets, hands gripped tight to fight the recoil.

Tracer ran, blinking forward in a zig-zag across the room. She had to be careful, she wouldn’t be able to recall for a few more minutes, while the chronal accelerator cooled down, she was vulnerable. “How’s this for fun?” She kicked her foot out, tossing dozens of papers into the air. Using them as a sort of cover, she blinked forward, making a desperate grab for Widow’s gun.

“It is great fun,” Widow replied, a viscous smile spreading across her face. “For me.” She took a small step back, revealing the mine she had dropped as she fell. He body had been blocking it, but as soon as she moved, Tracer stepped on it, unable to stop in time at her accelerated pace.

“Bloody Hell!” Tracer coughed and blinked back in a moment of desperation. She let her momentum carry her back, falling behind a turned over computer chair as she coughed. Morrison had been right, the gas burned like hell, and now it was almost impossible to see through the fog. 

That was...bad. Widow had special goggles to see through walls, forget smoke, and now Lena was at a serious disadvantage. She had to think quick. She could run, but she couldn’t blink again, and she still couldn’t recall. That left one option, and it was a crazy one. Still, keep calm and carry on, right?

“Hey! Amelie!” Tracer called out into the fog. She waited until she heard the other woman move, and then she made her move. “I got your fun right here!” She crouched, holding on tight to the chair, and then ran forward, allowing the leather upholstery to catch the bullets going her way. A few tore through the chair and buried themselves in the wall behind her, and one tore through her jacket, grazing the skin of her arm. 

She ignored the pain, and tossed the chair to the side just as Widow moved to reload. This was it, her chance, if she had the timing right. Widow looked up from her gun just in time to see the Brit rocketing towards her, arms outstretched. And then Tracer’s mouth was closing over hers, tasting like bergamot and vanilla cookies. It was warm and sweet, and just enough to make Widow loosen her grip on her gun. It clattered to the floor, and Tracer swept out her foot, kicking it out of the room, out the empty hole where the wall of windows had once been. And then they were falling behind it, Tracer still wrapped tight around Widow. 

They plummeted down the side of the building, the air cold and filled with smoke from the fight below. Widow struggled, reaching desperately for her grappling hook, but Tracer only held on tighter. And then, it was over. They were back in the room with the clearing gas. 

“Mon Dieu…” Widow reeled for a moment. She was still holding on to Tracer, knuckles white.

“Yeah, I get that a lot.” Tracer smiled as she slipped the cuffs on.


End file.
